


Of Motel Rooms And Alcohol

by Heather



Series: Project: X-Men [2]
Category: X-Men
Genre: Anonymous Sex, F/M, Graphic Sex, Surprise Pairing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2007-01-07
Updated: 2007-01-07
Packaged: 2017-10-08 02:54:18
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 995
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/71955
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Heather/pseuds/Heather





	Of Motel Rooms And Alcohol

The motel room is small and shabby, but Scott's had worse accommodations before and likely will again. At least the bed looks nice. Probably why she chose it.

The coat slips from her shoulders as she glides past him, and Scott's breath catches a little at the interplay of her long auburn curls against the fair skin of her bare back. He doesn't actually know that they're auburn, but he likes to think so. They look dark enough and catch the light the same way that—

No, Summers. Not going there.

He clears his throat and watches her unwind her pair of small, decorative plaits before he tries to think of something to say. "This…is nice."

An exasperated sigh from the other side of the room. She turns around to face him, her delicate brows knitted together disapprovingly and her full lips made fuller by just a hint of a pout. "You know those rules we talked about?"

Scott instantly feels like a chided schoolboy, generally not conducive for their purposes, but he's had a few too many drinks to turn back now. Besides, they already paid for the room.

"Yeah." He murmurs softly. Her expression eases a little and she takes his hands in her own. They're pleasantly warm and soft, and Scott distantly realizes this is the first time all evening that he's touched her.

She leans toward him with a gentle smile and says huskily, "One of them is that it's not the time to talk."

"I'm sorry." He says back, letting his forehead drop to touch hers. He is out of his depth.

"Shh." She raises his hand to her shoulder, rubbing a circle into his wrist. He actually feels capable for a moment as he pushes the straps of her dress down, letting it pool at her feet.

She's completely bare underneath.

\--

They melt together in the bed, their bodies joining as easily as drops of water. Scott strokes her face, her hair, her breasts, her shoulders. Her mouth claims his in a crushing kiss, their tongues meeting in a frenzy that's almost anger in its intensity.

Her heels press hard into his back as Scott pushes into her, his moans stifled and unheard under the sound of her own mindless babbles to God. He shifts above her, hooking one of her legs over his shoulder for a more exquisite angle as he kisses the sweaty crease of her knee. She gasps, arches and calls out his name. Scott half-wishes he knew hers to respond in kind; he settles instead for thrusting with renewed force, making and breaking her and claiming her for his own.

His eyes close tightly as his glasses slip from his nose. She sets them aside with a laugh and draws his mouth to her breasts with fervor, her fingernails goring his shoulders.

He meets her where she lives, stroke for stroke, measure for measure, as they bend and twist together, a tangle of limbs so complete, he can no longer sort where he ends and she begins.

"Come for me, darling." She gasps in his ear and Scott almost laughs as he complies. He no longer wants to die.

\--

Scott rests his chin on her shoulder in spent, sticky ecstasy, kisses her lips and smiles. She has just replaced his glasses on his face, so he can look at her—the beauty of her. Her hand strokes his cheek, then traces a limp, languid line down his neck, his arm, and twines her fingers through his in a tight grasp.

"Thank you." Scott whispers. Her expression changes then, her smile fading away. Her eyes dart to one side, then back, and Scott catches something fleeting there. Apology? Regret? He doesn't know.

He gets about fifteen seconds to think about it before his hand surges somehow within hers and then his entire world becomes pain.

\--

He's dying, he's dying—he knows he is. He has to be. Every muscle, every vein in his body is contracting and bulging and trying to explode. His throat is constricted, his airways are closing, and why, God, why does it all hurt so much?

His companion notices, he knows she does, but she's doing nothing about it, nothing but watching him. She looks sad and regretful and faintly aroused—as if whatever she's doing to him makes her upset but it's not stopping her from getting off on it hardcore.

"I'm sorry, I'm sorry," she gasps between brief moans, but Scott finds he can't really process it. It hurts so bad and he can't even scream.

And then it somehow manages to get worse.

Now she's gasping and choking, too, and trying to scream the same way he's been. Good luck with that, "darling." He's had no success with it, either.

She arches and struggles to get away from him, choking and making small strangled noises. She's trying hardest of all to break her hand away from where it's still locked in his. Her arm is shaking and twisting, yanking hard against their joined hands, but it's useless. Her other hand is slapping at his, trying helplessly to pry the fingers apart.

"Let go, let go!" She chokes as she writhes across the bed in pain. Veins are bulging in her face and she's struggling to breathe and he'd really like to let go and end this, but his hand is tense and locked with the pain so that his grip is like iron and God, when will death come and make it all stop?

Her eyes close tightly, drops of blood dripping down her cheeks like tears and bursting forth from her nose like some dark, sickening river. Her head lolls away from him and her back arches with one true scream before her eyes open.

The last thing Scott notices before the ceiling comes down on them in a flash of red is the way the shock and pain have just liberally streaked her hair with white.


End file.
